


Heaven Can't Help Me Now

by leiascully



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: F/M, Fantasizing, Infidelity, Scratching, Sexual Fantasy, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 14:29:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5294705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What shall I write to you?" he might murmur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heaven Can't Help Me Now

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I feel guilty. But not guilty enough not to have written this. Title from Taylor Swift's "Wildest Dreams". Inspiration obviously from "Satisfied".  
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction that bears no resemblance to and claims no knowledge of the people about whom it is written.

When she fantasizes at night, it's Alexander's eyes she sees, blue as the sky and deep as the ocean. She could drown in those eyes, and God, she wants to. (Blasphemy is the least of her worries when it comes to coveting her sister's husband, but at night, when she closes her eyes, she slides her hands down her body and slips into another world, where her sister is happily married to someone else, and she is free to submerge herself in Alexander's gaze until she is panting for breath.)

She wants to find his office empty. She wants to run her hands over his desk, where he spends so many hours. In her fantasy, the wood is almost warm to the touch, residual heat from his hands and his pen, the frantic volume of words generating their own heat as he scratches out line after line. She wants to sit on his desk, pushing aside the pounce-jar and the stray quills, and wait for him. 

She wants to see him come in, talking over his shoulder to someone, and shut the door when he sees her without even finishing his conversation. He doesn't say her name, just looks at her with those blue, blue eyes. The walls are thin, after all. He pushes up her heavy skirts and kneels before, taking off her shoes with gentle hands. For a soldier, he has such a careful touch, but then, he has never been only a soldier. 

In her half-dream, he unties her garters with exquisite care. He is almost always in a hurry, her Alexander (Eliza's Alexander, the moral part of her mind cuts in, but she pushes the thought away. If she is to be judged for her private thoughts, she will at least think them all the way through.). She would like to see him take his time, lingering over the fine ends of her ribbons, letting them slip slowly through his fingers. They would hear the faint sound of the fabric slithering to the floor. He would roll her stockings down with equal solicitude, trailing his fingers over the firm curves of her calves and down to the ticklish arches of her feet. Her toes might jump at his touch; he would cup them between his hands to quiet her nerves, and neither of them would say a word.

He would push her skirts higher, and she would help him lift the weight of them, their four hands working in tandem, their minds in perfect agreement. She would hold her skirts bunch above her thighs and he would gaze at her and reach for his favorite quill. There would be no need for him to dip the nib in his inkwell; he would find all the liquid he might want if he were to slip his fingers between her thighs, but she wants to feel the scratch of the nib against her skin.

"What shall I write to you?" he might murmur.

"A treatise," she would tell him, her voice equally quiet, just a husky whisper that rasps a little in her throat. "Tell me what our country shall be in fifty years under your leadership, and spare no detail."

"Very well," he would say, and his quill would scratch over her skin, lightly but quickly, half-tickling. As he wrote, she would see the shape of his words on her skin, pale lines at first, and then pinker as he wrote more and more frantically. He would not need to dust her skin with pounce; there would be no ink for the flat of his palm to smear as he smoothed and soothed her skin. Each word would be inscribed into her skin, catching the fine web of her nerves. She would see his words on the inside of her eyelids. She would feel the careful inscription etched into her bones, perhaps into her very soul, though he barely scratched the outer layers of her skin. The sharp nib of his quill would drive her to distraction. She would struggle to control her breathing, to hold herself steady as he wrote. His breath would be quicker too, as his mind raced and his hand flew to keep pace with his thoughts.

She would have to try not to shiver. She would have to tense her legs, and her seat, and her back. She would tense her shoulders, and her fingers would tighten their grip on the fabric of her skirts. She would breath in through her mouth and out through her pursed lips, quietly so as not to distract him. He had a mind unlike any she'd ever known; he could speak eloquently for hours on tax code and she might catch fire, set aflame by his passion. He would make her into a manuscript worth discovering, she thought. If she spoke, their minds would twine together like vines, like the thorny bramble of rosebushes that grew along the edge of the woods, abundant and tenacious and utterly impossible to untangle. When they bloomed in June, the whole world reveled in their perfume. She and Alexander might imagine something like that, something that would root deep and stand in lovely defiance.

When her legs were a chaotic map of his thoughts, when she was etched with a fine web of rosy filagree from ankle to thigh, he would stop, his smile rueful, and sit back on his heels. The width of his shoulders would brace her knees apart. The blue of his eyes would be profoundly limitless. She might topple forward into his eyes, into the hollow of his mouth, into the space where he's loosened his collar as he writes, his skin stoked hot by the fire of his thoughts. 

"My dearest," he would say, "Angelica, why didn't you say something?" And he would turn his face and press a kiss to the inside of her knee, where the nib of his quill had scratched deep, an impassioned word. And he might kiss higher, and higher still, and his fingertips might trace the lines of his thoughts to their logical conclusion at the center of her, and they might speak their way to some greater ecstasy. 

She wants his name writ large across her back: A.Ham from nape to hip. She wants his words inscribed on the inside of her wrist, where she might look at them. She wants ink filling the hollow of her collarbone, that he might never miss a chance to catch a fleeting thought on any handy surface. Together there would be no limits to the world they might imagine.

She wants. And meanwhile, she reads his letters, and traces the strokes of his pen with the edge of her fingernail, and shivers despite the heat.


End file.
